Running Away From the Truth

I’ve run with you on my back a few times now.   No additional weight, just your name safety-pinned on as insurance that I won’t wilt in the tough stages, won’t let you down.  You mean too much to me.

And, if I keep on running, I won’t have to sit still and think about you too much.

I’ve heard it said that in Africa there is a saying that you die twice.  Once when your body dies and twice when people forget you. If that is true, you will live a long, long life. You will out run me.

For a non-runner you are a great pace maker.  You never flag, you never sprint off, you never leave me alone. You manage to talk while we run.  To an on-looker I might cut a solitary figure, but I don’t feel alone.  I moan about being burnt out and you chuckle and remind me that I can’t be that burnt out if I can still jog 10 miles.  You send the rain to soak off my tears and the odd rainbow to remind me to blend some sunshine with my salty waterfalls.

I miss you and you are a constant stitch in my side.  When you were physically here, you braved all weathers to stand on the sidelines and yell support, even when your body was giving up the race. I’m not convinced that I supported you from the sidelines enough.  I sat by your side when you let me, stroked your tired calves, but I wish now that I’d foisted myself on you more often and ignored your orders to get on with living. I pity party all those lost opportunities to share your  best time.

You even paced yourself around my running, waited for an anaesthetising post-run glow before you hinted that life was dealing you a negative split and that I needed to find a new training partner.  I ignored your training advice, kept on running too fast, rather than tempering down to a jog to enjoy our last laps together. You made your transition to wheel chair with all the dignity you could muster and thanked me for my support.  We joked that now you had wheels you could overtake me, but we refused to articulate what my getting left behind might mean.  Refused to discuss that you had lost your legs for this race.

You were walking out of my life, but I was running away from the truth, desperate to see your footprints still.

And now you walk, gently jog besides me. You’re still very much on your second life, for, the longer you have been gone from us, the stronger your voice has become.  It’s good to hear you getting your breath back.  Good to know that your footprint on my life is that voice of integrity, challenging me not to quit, forcing me to find a personal best even when I howl that my personal best was our friendship.

 I will run in your wake always.